


The Camping Trip Of Doom

by SaintClaire



Category: Confessions of Georgia Nicolson - Louise Rennison
Genre: Camping, Damp, F/M, Fire, Jas has a birthday, Mud, all three at once, don't eat bloody beans, everyone else has minor relationships, this is a v small fandom guys, unorthodox presents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2018-10-19 14:46:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10642056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintClaire/pseuds/SaintClaire
Summary: Packing for the camping trip. Why Jas wants to celebrate her birthday in the middle of bloody nowhere with sheep that can burrow underground is beyond me. As in, FAR beyond me. This cannot end well.A camping trip between Gee and friends that is bound to go wrong, in a spectacular fashion. And I do mean SPECTACULAR everybody. Buckle up.





	1. Sven Dances In A Tent

**Author's Note:**

> Why in God's name does this fandom not have more works? There's like 300+ over on fan fiction. This was heaps of fun to write. It's mostly finished, I will probably just take my time posting, so do subscribe and leave comments to remind me I've left this here :)
> 
> Yes I am shameless. Enjoy!

 

**Chapter 1 – Sven dances in a tent**

**The crack of midnight**

 

I cannot believe I agreed to this.

 

**30 seconds past the crack of midnight.**

What was I thinking? Oh, that’s right, I wasn’t. This cannot end well. In fact it will probably end with wet knickers, broken toothbrush mugs, traumatised newts and an early Armageddon.

 

At the least.

 

**11:33 next morning**

 

Packing for the camping trip. Why Jas n’ Tom want to celebrate her birthday together in the middle in of nowhere is beyond me. As in, FAR beyond me.

 

**2 minutes later**

Do I take my stilettos? Hmmm, they don’t really fit in the bag.

 

Rang Jas.

 

“Jas, d’you think I should take my stilettos on this camping trip to Armageddon?”

 

She hung up. Jazzy is in a vair bad mood, and vair grumpy for someone whose birthday is in 3 days.

 

I will give her an extra-special present to get her out of her bad mood, and also so she will help me put up the tent Rosie and I are sharing.

 

**40 seconds later**

“Rosie do you have the tent we are supposed to be sharing on our camping trip of doom?”

 

“Oui, mon pally, except Sven is dancing in it.”

 

Knowing Sven, I should have guessed. “How is he dancing in it? Forgive me for being right, but you can hardly kneel in the tent without the ceiling ruining your hair, and Sven is not one for having his hair ruined by a sadistic tent ceiling.”

 

Roro sighed so dramatically it was a wonder she didn’t pass out. “Don’t use big words you don’t understand Gee. He is dancing in it, he poked both legs through the floor, and pulled it up to his hips. It kind of looks like he’s wearing an enormous, oddly shaped nappy actually. But he’s dancing around in it quite successfully, seeing as the door is zipped shut and he can’t see… Actually scratch that, he’s fallen into bush, both his legs are sticking up, toodles!!” – and slammed the phone down.

 

What what what?

 

I have to sleep in a tent that Sven danced into a bush in?

 

Oh God, I’ve just realised. Rosie said there are HOLES in the bottom of the tent. We will be eaten alive by voles and sheep and things that burrow through the ground in the night.

 

Well that’s it, I’m not going.

 

**Half an hour later**

Hahahaha Angus has pushed Gordy into the toilet. Fatherly love indeed, Gordy is soaking wet.

 

Libby is trying to dry him with Mutti’s hairdryer, but Gordy doesn’t seem to like it. Angus finally stepped in to help out, and bit through the cord in one chew, then sauntered off while Gordy made his escape.

 

WOW, supercat!! He is immune to electric shocks! I wonder what would happen if he was hit by lightening. He’s mad enough to be wondering around in the middle of a storm.

The phone rang, and since both Mutti and Vati are out making a fool of themselves in the clown car, I graciously answered it.

 

“What is it, I’m very busy, my cat has just nearly drowned in the toilet.”

 

“Well by all means Gee, get a pair of your fishnet stockings and get him out of there. A toilet is no place for a cat, if he wants a swim you should get him a fish-tank.”

 

Oh for Baby Jesus’ sake.

 

“Dave, neither Angus or Gordy ever get wet if they can help it, they closest they get to swimming is playing ‘biff-the-goldfish’ in next doors pond. Besides, if we got a fish-tank you can bet Libby would live in it for at least a day, and then it would be broken. We had a bowl fish-tank once, she wore it on her head to pretend she was an old-timey diver and it got stuck there, and Vatti had to hit the back of it gently with a hammer so it cracked and they could pull it off without cutting her head off from all the broken glass.” Which, incidently, Vatti sliced his hand on, and had to go the emergency room.

 

“Fair point well made Gee, but I am not actually calling for an order of a broken fish-tank. I merely ringing out of the goodness of my heart to tell you to bring fireproof clothing. Bonjour, Guten Tag!”

 

And then the phone went silent.

 

Fireproof clothing?

 

What is this?

 

**2 Minutes Later**

 

I refuse to go. Who knows what terrors will roam the woods along with murderous voles and tent-dancing Sven’s and pyromaniac Dave’s. Well actually, there’s only one of each of those two.

 

Thank God.

 

**5 o’clock**

 

Mum refuses to ring Jas’s mum and tell her I have to stay home from the birthday camping trip. This is, as usual, very selfish of her.

 

“Mum, I will be all alone in the wilderness surrounded by sheep. And VOLES. Is that what you want for your eldest daughter?”

 

But, as usual, she merely tutted at me and asked to borrow my blue heels for a date with Vatti, since I wouldn’t be needing them.

 

Oh Lord. I shall have to bury all of my important belongings in the back garden to stop people looting them, like in the days of Ye Olde England.

 

No, that won’t work, Angus and Gordy will only dig them up again, and eat them or rebury them somewhere else in the world. And it could be anywhere else in the world. Even Vatti’s shed, which I will never, ever go into.

 

**2 hours later**

Damnity damnity damn. Mutti has rang Jas’s mother and asked if I am supposed to bring anything on the camping trip, and Jas’s mother said how much Jas was looking forward to it, and I didn’t need anything but a sleeping bag.

 

I will tell you this for free, and if Jas knew what Dave the Laugh was planning she might not be looking forward to this camping trip quite so much.

 

**1 minute later**

 

But he is my boyfriend now, and I luuuuuuurve him.

 

**30 seconds later**

 

Do I even have a sleeping bag?

 

**30 more seconds later**

 

Oh yes, from that disastrous school trip where we all saw Miss Wilson in the nuddy-pants with her soap on a rope and Nauseating P. Green nearly fell in a peat bog, before the boys all arrived and I fell in a river and broke my bottom.

 

What a lark that was.

 

**1 minute later**

What am I going to do about fireproof clothing?

 

**5 minutes later**

Oh I know, I will make a minidress out of that fire-blanket Mutti bought in her ludicrous attempt to make this house ‘safe’.

 

There are condemned buildings that are safer than this house..

 

**10 seconds later**

All of this stressful thinking is quite tiring me out.

ZZZZZZZZZ….

 

 

 

**Sunday, 9 AM**

We leave TOMORROW. I have re-resurrected the statue of our Lord Sandra from Libby’s doll house. Freak doll house of horrors more like, with poor, deformed dolls with ratty hair strewn all over the place.

 

But I am Lord Sandra’s saviour, he is now sticky taped to my dresser.

 

Praying to him for mercy and a safe trip, like Ye Olde pilgrims.

 

 

**10 seconds later**

 

I highly doubt pilgrims had to deal with newts and pyromaniac Dave the Laugh’s though.

 

**1 hour later**

Making my fire-proof minidress. Glued on velcro-strips that fasten together at the sides. It is a bit longer than I wanted it or needed to be, so I cut of the bottom and made a covering for my hair.

 

I am really taking inspiration from the Ye Olde pilgrims.

 

**30 minutes later**

Success! I am finished!

 

**30 seconds later**

 

Sacre bleu. Not finished. Dress probably shouldn’t be strapless.

 

**2 minutes later**

Finished! I have made a dress. Perhaps I will become a famous designer, selling my clothes worldwide, even in Hamburger-a-gogo land.

 

I will not be designing cowboy boots though, and that is a fact.

 

**5 minutes later**

 

Hmmmm. Tried dress on. It is possibly a smidgen too short now.

 

As in, doesn’t-quite-cover-my-knickers too short. Oh well. I will wear my leggings underneath, which I will need anyway, to protect me from the hypothermic English air. At least it has straps to hold it up now.

 

**11 o’ clock**

Phone rang. Only Ellen dithering on about what to get Jas for her birthday present. Got her off the phone as quickly as I could, saying that Libby was up a tree wearing a pair of old-timey flying goggles and cape, and had tied herself to a rope.

 

The sad part? I was not lying.

 

Does she think she’s superman?

 

Everyone else in this family has gender-confusion issues so I suppose I can’t be surprised Libby has caught the disease.

 

Oh bloody hell, she looks like she’s about to jump.

 

**Half an hour later**

Tee hee hee, Libby has fallen off the tree branch and into the bush. I would be more worried, but the branch was only a meter of the ground, and the bush had all those soft leafy things on it.

 

That has not stopped her screeching like Gordy when she pulls him by his tail toward the bath. And that is a lot of screeching.

 

**2 minutes later**

All is well, Mutti has pulled Libby out of the bush, and she is not even scratched. Hmmm. Angus is immune to electric shocks, and Libby is apparently immune to heights. I wonder what would happen if she fell off the roof?

 

Would she bounce?

 

Not that I would want this, of course. I do occasionally love me sister, and I know she LOBES me back.

 

**1 minute later**

After all this kerfuffle, I have forgotten what I am supposed to be doing.

 

**2 minutes later**

Oh yes, going to buy Jazzy Spazzy’s birthday present.

 

What will I get her?

 

**2 o’ clock**

Rosie and I met at the shops looking for Jas’s birthday present. We have found a FABULOUS present, that Jazzy will absolutely love and adore for eternity, or that is what I like to think.

 

Because it is so very expensive Roro and I have split it between us, it shall be a joint present.

 

But now we have to lug it home to assemble it.

 

Good grief. All this work shall ladder my tights. And then where will I be? With laddered tights, that’s where.

 

**What is called ‘dinner time’ at other people’s houses**

Ring the bells and blow the trumpets, there is a food-like thing on our kitchen table!

 

It is also accompanied by a note telling me to cook it and give some to Libby for tea but oh well. It’s only creamed rice. How hard can it be to make creamed rice from a packet?

 

**7:30**

Oh God. Rice everywhere. Angus is sitting in the saucepan.

 

**Hour later**

What a fiasco and a half. There is some food in me, some food in Libby, a lot of food in Angus, and rice all over the kitchen.

 

Who knew you were supposed to put a lid on rice? Or how much water to put in the pot.

 

**2 seconds later**

 

At least Libbs and I got the mostly cooked stuff.

 

**1 minute later**

Hee hee, Angus is covered in creamy rice. Gordy is trying to eat it off him.

 

**30 seconds later**

There is no rice on Angus any more, he did the famous mad-cat-covered-in-rice shake and is as clean as a whistle.

 

Gordy isn’t.

 

Neither is the floor, or the walls, come to that.

 

But ho-hum, I have a camping trip to pack for, and need to try and wrap Jas’s present. Though how will be the question. The feathers might go everywhere.

 

**20 minutes later**

Dave rang.

 

“Gee, do you have an oversize butterfly net lying around your house by any chance?”

 

What a good question. We could, but you would never know it.

 

“No idea, but we have many items covered in creamed rice and a clown car that you are more than welcome to sell on Ebay should it tickle your fancy.”

 

“Ta love, but this is specific, I need it for the camping trip, or my wondrous idea will end in disaster and woe!!” And with that, he slammed the phone down.

 

Love?

 

Has he snapped?

 

Has he been eating a diet of Sven-food?

 

Why in the name of baby Jesus does he need an oversize butterfly net?

 

Must pray I never find out, and that he does not get one.

 

**Later (it’s dark, pick a time)**

Oh dear. Mutti and Vati have just speeded in at half a mile an hour…

 

There is still creamed rice all over the house.

 

Oops.

 

Oh well. I am trying to concentrate on closing my suitcase, which does not want to be closed.

 

Ahaha! Finally the suitcase is closed!

 

Oh dear.

 

The yelling has started.

 

**2 hours later**

Mutti went completely ballisticisms when she saw the state of the kitchen. I unfairly dragged down to explain, but I don’t even know why she was complaining. Angus and Gordy had eaten most of the creamed rice of everything, even licking out the pot.

 

What could she possibly have found to be mad out?

 

Could it have been the 5 pots on the floor, from when I was trying to find the right size?

 

Perhaps it was the blackened tile, from that small fire when some of the oil accidently spilled over the gas burner.

 

Oh who knows. Must try to find a ribbon to wrap Jas’s present with.

 


	2. To Catch A Butterfly Net With A Fish

**Chapter 2 – To Catch A Butterfly Net With A Fish**

**9 o’ clock in the morning**

Hmmm. I have wrapped Jas’s present, but it looks somewhat like a very fat and lumpy person-sized lump has been covered in Christmas paper. Though I suppose she will know it is not that, because if it was I would not even be able to lift it off the ground, let alone carry it through the haunted woods of wherever we’re going.

 

**2 mins later**

Rang Rosie.

 

“Roro, the present is wrapped and tied, but still looks like a fat lumpy person in a body bag made of Christmas paper.”

 

“Mon Dieu and Sacre Bleu Gee, but we shall have to press on. I really can’t talk at the moment, I’m helping Sven pack his spiked flares in his suitcase so he will blend in with the hedgehogs he is eager to meet on the camping trip. Bye bye!!”

 

Sacre Bleu indeed, if Sven is taking his spiked trouser flares. At least one thing is for sure, with those on, Rosie won’t be able to get close enough to him to achieve a number 10 and that is _le fact._

I have my doubts she will be able to hold his hand, you certainly wouldn’t want to be anywhere near spiking distance.

 

It would probably be safer to be up a tree with Dave.

 

Hmm, now I think about that…

 

He might try to chop it down or something. Tom’s bringing his axe, so we can build fires out of firewood. Apparently none of the adults considered the scenario of Dave or one of the other merry lads chopping a tree down to prove their man strength.

 

Hmm. This could be a disaster, a badger might get squished. Oh no, my mistake, that would be a good thing. We wouldn’t be at risk of the deadly smell they can spray out their bottoms. Or is that skunks? I forget.

 

**45 mins later**

It would be a worthwhile idea to bring a suit of armour with me, but that is very unsexy and also we do not have one. Also, not one of my lipsticks would match with it.

 

**5 mins later**

Borrowed Mutti’s waxing kit from the bathroom to wax my legs with before I leave, as dear old Jazzy Spazzy said I was not allowed to bring my razor with me, or hair bleach, or any other bleach for that matter.

 

She has very little trust in me.

 

Instructions were clearly made for the very dim, warm wax strips between hands, pull strips apart, smooth nice and smoothy onto legs and wait 20 seconds before ripping off.

 

Really, how painful can this be? Why do people make such a fuss over this?

 

**30 seconds later**

Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod I am in so much pain, my legs are bright red and it looks like I’ve got chickenpox, huge WELTS are appearing all over me from where the wax strip was ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow.

 

**1 agonising hour later**

Never again will I try waxing. I shall inform Vati he needs to begin saving for laser hair removal treatments.

 

There is wax all over the bathroom.

 

It is eerily similar to the creamed rice episode, in fact.

 

But there are no saucepans. And that’s a good thing.

 

**30 seconds later**

I would have hit myself over the head with one by now.

 

**20 mins later**

Well the bathroom is _mostly_ clean, except for these stupid little patches of wax that refuse to come off the mirror, or the sink, or the tiles, or wherever the hell I accidently put one of the sodding strips down.

 

Threw the wax strips away, and just re-stole Mutti’s hair-removal cream.

 

Don’t know why I didn’t just do that in the first place.

 

**1 minute later**

Oh I remember, it’s because I’m being sent to the haunted woods in exile with a bunch of jolly lads and Dave.

 

**10 seconds later**

Hmmm. Dave does not fit in the category of a jolly lad.

 

What is Dave’s category?

 

‘The Laugh’ just doesn’t cut it.

 

**10 more seconds later**

 

‘The bloody insane and infested with pyromaniaism’ might.

 

…

 

**2 hours later**

Dave and Sven on the phone.

 

I didn’t catch much beyond Sven singing something that sounded like row, row row your boat in Sweden-language, and Dave yelling “All is well my gorgeous Gee, we have found the fish to catch the butterfly net with that we shall eat for tea, got to go!” before the phone was slammed down.

 

He caught a butterfly net with a fish? What in Baby Jesus’ name are they doing together with a butterfly net that I really hoped they would not find and a fish?

 

Sincerely hope my boyfriend does not turn into a flamboyant gay and get together with Sven, forever going through life sorting out which customized flares he shall wear tomorrow.

 

Doubt it.

 

Also, Rosie would never allow it. She would stop getting monthly presents of pickled herrings whenever the painters come to visit.

 

I am never going to Sweden-land. Ever.

 

**Half an hour later**

Saying goodbye to the furry savages before Jazzy’s Mutti gets here to drive us off to the camping site.

 

We would in fact probably be safer if Angus and Gordy came with us, as they would eat every vole in sight and then leave the extra for us to cook for tea, as they are so fond of doing for Mutti, who screams and ungraciously throws their generous gifts from the house.

 

Though I am not eating vole, or any other thing scampering around those woods, and that is a fact.

 

We could always eat Jas, I suppose. It is her birthday trip, but the rest of us will survive, and Jazzy will just have to accept she cannot be selfish.

 

As a matter of fact, what are we eating on this camping trip?

 

I think I will hastily pray to Baby Jesus and Buddha and Thor and the Swedish Gods that it is not anything the boys intend to catch and roast over the fire or anything. God knows what they taught Tom and Jas on that wilderness course.

 

Great, now the disturbing image of Jas in a frilly apron dancing round a bonfire roasting voles on a spit has popped into my head.

 

Erlack a pongoes. Tom is carving in a lookalike-transvestite apron.

 

**10 seconds later**

Must make sure I have packed the fireproof dress and ye olde hair covering.

 

**4 o’ clock**

Lord Sandra help me, Jas’s mum has arrived with Jas.

 

**Hour later**

It took us awhile to fit my bags and Jazzy’s present in the bag of the car. This was of course because of all the pointless camping stuff already crammed into the boot. Stuff like Swiss army knives, coils of rope and headtorches.

 

I knew it, she intends to drag us from civilization entirely. In what scenario on this trip will we need coiled rope? Is she planning a day trip to go abseiling?

 

\- Absolutely must not mention this horrific thought in case it isn’t so. They don’t need more ludicrous ideas, that’s for sure.

 

**10 seconds later**

 

Jas is bouncing up and down in the car like an aardvark on espresso tablets. Not that I have ever seen, or want to see this.

 

Do we even have aardvarks in Merry England? Hope not.

 

I will point out that Jas’s parents car is entirely normal, painted a sensible dark blue with working seatbelts and the correct number of wheels. Jas’s Mutti is not wearing flying goggles and a helmet, and her Vati apparently wished Jas a lark of a time and stayed home to read the newspaper.

 

This is a clear case of absolutely top parenting. Aside from, you know, the letting-us-all-go-off-into-the-wilderness-to-die bit. But apart from that, Jazzy’s parents could win the award for the year.

 

Honestly, am I the only one that sees a slight problem out of Me, Jas, Rosie, Ellen, Mabs, Jools, Tom, Sven, Dave, and Rollo in the middle of nowhere, fending for ourselves for a week in an area that does not get mobile reception? Apparently so.

 

Perhaps this is because we never told our parents what happened on our last camping trip. Nauseating P. Green nearly died in peatbog and Miss Wilson’s nudity was exposed to all, finished off by the boys making a surprise entrance at our tents for us to all go skipping through the woods together.

 

**15 minutes later (sound dramatic music)**

Lord Sandra help me. We’re here.

 

**8 o’ clock**

Praise God and all his holy angels. Two Minute Noodles for tea, that Tom is cooking on the camp stove that he actually knows how to use and has not burned his fingers from. Yum yum yum.

 

**Later**

Became exceedingly cross with Dave when he volunteered us to do dishes for this first night. Dishes? I have never washed a dish voluntarily and that is a fact.

 

Still, to seem like a good sport I heaved the sack of noodle-contaminated dishes onto my shoulder and started off to the river in my huffmobile. Made Dave carry the heavy-looking box that probably had, I don’t know, soap and stuff in it.

 

I am not going to speak to Dave. Boyfriend or _non,_ he shall be punished for this.

 

**Even later**

Dave’s punishment has been temporarily rescinded due to the heavy-duty snogging session that occurred while we were supposed to be washing dishes.

 

What happened is; Dave grabbed the bag off me, dumped it in the shallow-y part of the river and pulled me behind a tree to snog me. Mmmmm, nicey nice. Thankfully, no symptoms of snogging withdrawal. Number 6 and nip libbling included. Dave does not seem to be on the ship of ear-snogging. I think I shall have to subtly push him onto it. Or do I mean off it? No, this is not the Titanic where people went around pushing other people overboard.

 

What am I talking about? Brain has not yet made a re-appearance since we snogged. Hope it comes back soon.

 

However, we then both had to run for it when we saw the bag of dishes floating down the stream. Dave made a heroic flying leap to grab the bag, but fell over a rock and landed face-first in the water. How I laughed. Except then he grabbed me round the waist and shoved me in with me, and I got all wet as well.

 

We did eventually grab the bag, and trodded back to the campsite sopping wet. Everyone stared us like we’d grown tails or something, but Sven just skipped off and came back with his hairdryer, which he handed to Dave.

 

Err, this would be great, but where exactly were we supposed to plug the cord-attached hairdryer into, I wonder. The tree, maybe?

 

So we changed into our jimjams and sat around eating chocolate and playing true confessions until it got dark, and everyone went to go make out.

 

Jazzy’s actual birthday is not until the day after tomorrow, so she cannot have her present until then. I sincerely hope time will hurry up, the present looks creepily like a corpse in a body bag beside Roro’s sleeping bag in our tent.

 

That reminds me – must check Sven’s foot holes in the tent floor have been sealed over.

 

**Before Midnight**

Lying in my sleeping bag with sodding no-one. Rosie buggered off for a midnight snogging session with Sven, so Dave, who has been made to share with Sven, will probably be scared for life. Oh well. Serve’s him right for dragging us to do dishes.

 

How clean they are is in question, but oh well, you can’t have everything. If you look at them with squinty eyes in an abstract manner they look quite clean. Sort of.

 

**A bit more before Midnight**

Ahhh, Roro is back. With considerably more chapped lips then when she left. And I don’t mean she grew more lips, you drongoes, honestly, how dim are you?

 

She was giggling and twittering on about Sven, and snogging, and sandwiches, and other horrific things that start with the letter S . This camping trip is starting off as quite a larf actually. Perhaps it will not end up with broken toothbrush mugs and nudists with soap-on-a-rope. Nothing has gone wrong yet, except for that time I fell in the stream. That was, you know, ‘bout two hours ago.

 

Oh bollocking hell, I had to open my mouth. It’s starting to rain.

 

…

Still raining.

…

 

Rain is now thundering down hard enough to make dents in the tent. We will probably be washed away down the river, and end up in on a deserted island like Robinson Crusoe.

 

Do tents float? Pray we do not find out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> any and all notes welcome :)


	3. Chapter 3 - Battling Mud With A Hair Straightener

**Chapter 3 – Battling Mud With A Hair Straightener**

**Dawn**

Woke up to the sound of birds twittering and chirping and other such noises. For God’s sake, how did Snow White sleep?

 

**Later**

Oh, no, all is well, Sven has just thrown a tin of salmon at them, they’re gone now. Why does Sven have salmon in his tent? Also, I think he managed to knock out a budgie. It’s just sitting on the ground looking shocked.

 

**Later Still**

Well after I finally managed to sleep last night with a bloody cyclone beating down on us, we all emerged like voles from their burrows this morning, with hair looking like it belonged in a costume store on an afro wig.

 

Come to think of it, Sven probably has one in his bag.

 

Anyway, we dragged ourselves around the tarp-covered camping stove and sat down, only to leap right back up with wet bum-oley’s.

 

Why do people have authentic log furniture? Are the natural aesthetics supposed to make up for the fact that you have half a dozen knobs of wood sticking into your bottom like a very uncomfortable massage roller? Perhaps that is the selling point. Jaz and Tom will probably start a business selling natural furniture that uncomfortably massages your bottom, ‘3 logs for only 10 quid, perfect for those without boyfriends or people who lack siblings to put potatoes in your bed!’

 

Urgh.

 

Wet.

 

‘With the added bonus of plucking splinters out of your trousers!’

 

**1 o’ clock**

 

After lunch, the lovebirds ambled off for a bit of a stroll, Dave and the other lads ran off yelling about firecrackers in the bog marsh, the rest of us who were sane flipped the tarp over and lay down to work on our tans.

 

Despite the fact that the cloud cover meant that it could have passed as night time in Antarctica, we persevered, with the bloody-mindedness that gets exotic explorers to the middle of nowhere and us with white legs that pretend they have never seen the sun.

 

But noot to worry, as Jules had a suggestion.

 

“ – a bunch of tea bags, you know, heaps, and then you take a cloth and run it up and down your legs until it stains your skin dark enough.”

 

Ellen, in an unusual display of cleverness was putting up a bit of a protest, to Jules’ brilliant plan to cover our legs in tea bags, that went something along the lines of – “but wouldn’t it, erm, well you see the tea colours the water, but erm, well that’s not to say, erm, well it wouldn’t stain the skin you know, would it?”

 

I was going to say something at this point, but Jules was already rifling around in the bag that contained the food looking for tea bags, that Jas had hidden in Tom’s tent so ‘we wouldn’t run out of food before the trip ended’.

 

If we run out of food, we shall simply have to tie a bell to Sven’s neck and have Dave herd him to the nearest village, in order to plead with the villagers to send a rescue party to we starving, defenceless young maidens in the forest.

 

Or, you know, make the boys walk the 10 miles to the nearest Booths and bring back tinned beans and chocolate.

 

Plus, I had just wedged my feet under Rosie’s bum-oley, which as acting as a pleasant, two-ton hot water bottle.

 

**2 minutes later**

Oh God, Jules is rubbing cold, wet tea bags up and down her legs.

 

Surely this is stupidity only Ellen is capable of?

 

Has the fresh air of the wilderness somehow affected her brain?

 

**5 seconds later**

If this kind of brain damage can be inflicted by a few days camping in a wet field I am not surprised the real explorers went mad and wore things in neon colours made from fleece and ate their own dogs.

 

Once we get home, I am never leaving the safety of civilisation again.

 

**10 seconds later**

Urgh.

 

I will also never be able to have a cup of tea again.

 

Sadly, not without thinking of Jool’s scrubbing tea bags up her legs while Ellen goggles on like a very surprised goldfish.

 

A goldfish would have more brains in this situation.

 

**1 minute later**

No, someone sensible has come to their senses, Rosie has gotten her beard and pipe to inflict some wisdom on this travesty against fake tanning.

 

She will be more use if she sets Jules’ legs on fire. The fire will be warm, it may possibly dry out our cold bottoms, and Jules’ will get a sort-of sunburn on her legs that will change there colour and make her put away the tea bags.

 

**1 minute later**

 

Or this could be the time she sets fire to her beard, and provides top entertainment value for us all.

 

**Later**

Jules has discovered that wet teabags do not, in fact, stain your legs brown. However, they do stain white socks.

 

V., v., funny though.

 

**Later**

After we all sat around for an eon moaning about how hungry we were, and wet, and how the lads hadn’t even stuck around to set things on fire for our entertainment, Rosie surprised us all and had a good idea. She went into Sven’s tent, and after many scary sounding metallic bangs and scrapings, she crawled out backwards, with an extra cord around her foot and holding a pair of curling tongs in hand.

 

Does Sven have an entire bloody hairdressing parlour in there?

 

He is not using it to do his own hair, and that is a fact.

 

Maybe it’s his birthday present to Jazzy Spazzy, a surprise haircut and makeover in the wilderness.

 

Christ. She will no longer need to think of plans to blend in with the hedgehogs if Sven comes near her head with scissors.

 

…

 

Rosie’s brill idea was to stick the hair curlers in the middle of the fire, and then use it to toast doughnuts.

 

You had to do it quite slowly, because we could only do one doughnut at a time, but it actually really worked!!

 

**Later**

The lads got a bit of a shock when they came back.

 

Jules still had tea bags on her legs (in the vain hope that it simply might need a bit longer to work), I was painting Mabs’ toenails a bright, vivid shade of black, Rosie was busily plaiting her beard while holding her pipe between her knees, and Ellen was attempting to dry her wet underwear over the fire with a stick.

 

Which she promptly dropped, on the sudden arrival of the boys, announced by Dave the Laugh pretending he had an air horn.

 

“Settle down girls, I am back, please take a number and line up in an orderly fashion to kiss me! Ellen, are you quite alright there?”

 

It is worth mentioning at this point that Ellen was frantically trying to fish her knickers out of the ash with her trusty stick. After muttering and mumbling for a few years, she plucked them out and practically ran for the tent, while Edward ogled her bottom.

 

Well if he likes stuttering girls with no pride, good for him.

 

She does at least have tea bag free legs.

 

And if that’s not a selling point, what is?

 

**Oh Baby Jesus, is it dinner time yet?**

 

With Jaz n’ Tom still gambling around in the woods like hedgehogs, we got down to business, now the lads were back.

 

Apparently the nub and gist of their merry melarking was a firework display for Jaz that they will start tomorrow night when it is dark enough.

 

Oh goody.

 

Now we know when the fireproof dress will make it’s opening debut upon England’s grey and miserable countryside.

 

Wait.

 

This means the boys have had the firecrackers with them the whole time.

 

Oh God.

 

We are all lucky to be alive.

 

Especially if the firecrackers were in the tents when Sven attempted to show off his Viking fire dancing skills with just a touch of Hawaiian flair.

 

And nearly set Tom’s tent on fire.

 

If only Jaz’s owl collection had been inside.

 

He and Rosie are now jabbering on in Viking-speak about twirling sticks and petrol.

 

Did we bring a fire extinguisher?

 

**Half past five**

Mmmmmm, snogging Dave the Laugh behind the tent I am supposedly sharing with Rosie and the Christmas wrapped body bag of doom.

 

It was going really well, nip libbling and warm hands and brain melting and nicey niceeeeeee….

 

Dave’s hands had somehow snuck under the bottom of my shirt and were rubbing around my waist, all nice and warm, and hang on, how did he get his hands there without my noticing?

 

Oh who cares, not me.

 

That is, until there was a stern cough and a raised eyebrow from a third party who was decidedly not involved in this snogging session, and I shrieked and fell backwards into the tent while Dave let out a very girl squeak of terror.

 

Or you could say, until we were quite literally interrupted by the bogeyman.

 

…

Why?

 

**30 seconds later**

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha

**20 seconds later**

Okay, I am fine, I have stoppe-

 

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha

**5 minutes later**

Oh the laughter. I do not know how we stopped.

 

You would think, being the experienced wilderness pioneers they are, Jaz and Tom would be relatively safe wondering around the haunted woods of wherever-this-is.

 

But no.

 

Tom has fallen in a bog.

 

**Later**

My stomach hurts from laughing.

 

Rosie’s face has gone all red and blotchy, and her makeup is absolutely RUINED from laughter tears.

 

Jools is still wheezing.

 

Even Jazzy Spazzy is trying to stop smiling.

 

She is failing.

 

Don’t look at him, don’t look at him- oh bloody hell, here I go again-

 

Tehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehe…

 

**A bit later**

For all that the entire campsite is on their knees laughing at him, Tom is being a bloody good sport about this.

 

I may even make him a little trophy, as a participation award.

 

That has the caption, ‘fell into a mud-filled bog looking for badgers’ on it.

 

No, that would be unkind.

 

But he did!

 

**Considerably later, after everyone had picked themselves off the ground.**

According to Jaz, it was just a really unfortunate accident that could have happened to anyone. She had called Tom over to look at some interesting (not) footprints at the base of some bush in the middle of a field. Tom had apparently been filled with the light-hearted merry glee that all insane wildlife ramblers are full of, and practically skipped over to her.

 

But not before tripping over another bush halfway there and falling flat in his face in the marsh.

 

This could not have happened to anyone, as no-one else in our entire group with more brain cells than fingers on one hand would have gotten so excited over seeing some vole poo or badger hairs that he ran across a field without looking where he was going and ended up in a mud pond worthy of the crap wrestling matches that Vati watches on TV of the women in the rudey-nudeys.

 

This comedy entertainment alone has made the entire trip worth it.

 

And Sven hasn’t even given Jaz a makeover from his hairdressing shop of horrors that he has concealed inside his tent.

 

**20 seconds later**

I spoke too soon, he has just reappeared with the hair straightener.

 

**10 seconds later**

He has given it to Tom and said something incomprehensible in his ancient Viking language before seizing his muddy head and kissing him on both cheeks.

 

Why?

 

**3 minutes later**

 

Rosie translated. “He says to use the hair straighteners like an iron and that will make the mud come out of your clothes before you given in to becoming a piece of scenery in the woodland”.

 

That is all very well and good, but like the hair dryer this morning, this other piece of hairdressing equipment also has a bloody power cord.

 

Does Sven have a generator hidden inside that tent that he just keeps forgetting to bring out?

 

**Later**

Who cares?

 

Despite his filthy state, Tom has proved himself capable of cooking sausages and beans for tea. Mmm, yum yum.

 

So despite that toxic gas that will cause an evacuation of our tent later on tonight, I am quite happy at the moment.

 

It is quite disturbing watching Rosie gleefully eat beans with her mouth open while rambling on to Sven about his latest pair of ‘military flares’. I think they are discussing whether they could add a holster to both sides, or just the one.

 

Baby Jesus, save us.

 

Buddha.

 

Mohammed.

 

Anyone.

 

Literally, I will accept from anyone, if it means I do not have to watch a 7-foot Viking parade about the English countryside in military flairs that have been specially adapted to accommodate holsters.

 

Please?

 

**Later**

Jaz n’ Tom have disappeared to do the dishes, which means they are having a leisurely snog by the creek will the dishes sit on the ground.

 

I hope she does not become so entranced by passion she forgets where she is and attempts to sit on his lap.

 

There are only so many things that make up for clothes becoming ruined by muddy boyfriends.

 

“Well,” pointed Mabs out with an air of sensibility that didn’t suit her, “she might push him into the creek first and snog him when he gets out. Then she only gets wet, not muddy”. Ellen dithered her way into the conversation, “but wouldn’t um, he need to srub the mud out, um, well I’m not sure, it’s just that he’d need to take his clothes off, erm, for that and well, eep!-“

 

This was as far as she got before Rosie leaped off the lap of her doubles-as-bony-furniture boyfriend and took her soundly by the shoulders.

 

“ELLEN! ARE YOU SAYING THAT OUR VERY OWN WILDERNESS EXPLORERS HAVE NIPPED OFF FOR A SPOT OF SKINNY DIPPING?!”

 

Oh this we have to see.

 

 

**Later, wet, and with a stray fork in my hair**

Our well meant attempt to chaperone our delicate friend on her moonlight foray into the forest with her boyfriend was not accepted with the good spirits that it was meant with.

 

That is to say, when Rosie accidently stepped on Sven’s foot as we peered out from behind a tree that was covered in more wet moss, and Sven made a sound like the joining of Batman and Barbie before leaping out and clutching his foot, Jaz did not take it very well.

 

In fact, she got up from Tom’s lap where she was snogging her gorgeous (shirtless!!!!!!!) hunk of a boyfriend and grabbed the bag of cutlery, which she proceeded to throw at us, as we ran away.

 

I had thought we had already used up the laugh-o-meter for today, but apparently not.

 

And now there is some serious discussion to be had – what number on the snogging scale does it count as when the boy is the one who has taken his shirt off??

 

 

**I don’t know what the time is, there are lots of twinkling bloody stars shining through the tent flaps**

V, v, pleased with Jazzy’s little birthday trip up the snogging scale.

 

I may have to give her a friendly duffing up when we get home, before we shove her into her bedroom and sit on her to make her give us all the juicy details on her and Hunky’s love fest.

 

Incidentally, her romantic little midnight snog has given us time to sort out the final preparations for her ACTUAL birthday surprises for tomorrow.

 

I can hardly sleep for the excitement.

 

That, and the fact you can practically see the fumes wafting through the air from Rosie’s backside.

 

Hence why the tent flaps are open.

 

What in baby Jesus’ name is in beans that causes them to turn into chemical weapons once digested?

 

What shade of lipstick will go best with my fireproof dress?

 

When having this discussion sans Jaz, the gang have not yet been able to decide on classy or costume makeup. So it’s a choice between the really vivid purple, or the pink shade that suits my lips that I stole from Mutti and then framed Libby for.

 

Must make sure she never finds out that was me.

 

**Pre-midnight, oh God, would the sheep SHUT UP**

 

As well as it technically being Jazzy Spazzy’s birthday in about the next 5 minutes, there will also be the added bonus of finally getting the body bag lump out of this goddamn tent.

 

I am not sure what is creeping me out more, the distant baaaing of sheep, or the slight rustle of Christmas paper from the lump.

 

Definitely the sheep.

 

What can the possibly have to baaaa about at this time of night?

 

Like, it’s not as though anything particularly interesting is happening, there is no food, no farmers, no village idiot sneaking into the paddock with his mates for a laugh-

 

Hang on.

 

Where the hell is Dave?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, thank you to my single reader who's around. Cozy fandom, no?


	4. Chapter 4 – The hailing of Satan with couture comedy flares and some Mac n Cheese

**Chapter 4 – The hailing of Satan with couture comedy flares and some Mac n Cheese**

 

**1 minute past 4am**

Oh god oh god oh god.

 

**2 minutes past 4am**

Running for my life away from angry sheep.

 

**3 minutes past 4am**

Sheep are much faster than they appear.

Pant pant pant pant pant pant pant pant.

 

**Later, in a wet pile of exhaustion, sheep grease, and mud**

What the hell.

 

**Later, still in a wet pile of exhaustion, but scraped mostly clean from sheep grease and mud**

There is something to be said, for thoughtful gifts from the heart.  That is why Rosie and I went to so, so much trouble with our joint present; the result of weeks of planning, pounds of craft supplies, and the unfortunate loss of much of Gordy’s fur. 

It was also notably, both planned and finished days in advance BEFORE Jas’s birthday, because that is the type of tip top mates we are.  

So I’m not saying that gifts specifically tailored to a person’s soul and idiotic oddness aren’t important in the way of being mates. 

But sheep are far more territorially-cannibalistic canines than the people of England have ever clearly realised, which Dave, Sven, and all the lads bar Tom learned at the stroke of midnight when they stole the rope out of Tom’s car and went to lasso a lamb, to present to Jas on her birthday.

So the sheep did not only have one, but several village idiots sneaking into their nice freezing paddock to traumatically kidnap a small member of the flock by lasso, and then blindfolding it, in an effort not to frighten it.  So now we have currently have custody of a sheep the size of a small toddler, and Edward is helping Sven hold it’s mouth shut so the baaing doesn’t bring the international police force to our hiding place.

What a lucky girl Jazzy Spazzy is.

 

**Several minutes later**

Certainly luckier than the lamb that Sven is cradling in his arms like a baby.   He’s actually rocking it now, crooning a lullaby that sounds like a demented Viking made it up to accompany rituals of tossing babies over campfire flames or something.  He half looks like he’s about to tell his demented honorary Viking-ess of a girlfriend to get a bottle for it.

 

**5:33 am**

I may be psychic.

Rosie’s has just come back with an actual baby’s bottle that does in fact appear to hold milk.

She has joined in with the ominous lullaby, and now Sven has started doing a jigging dance to accompany her, possibly in the hopes of sending the lamb back to sleep.  It does not seem to be working.  I did not realise sheep were capable of making that kind of sound.

Where is our camera?

 

**5:55 am**

And how is dear Jazzy Spazzy still asleep with this almighty racket going on?

Has the proximity to wildlife caused her to merge by osmosis into some type of deaf badger?

 

**Sunrise**

It seems we may all require several hours sleep before we are able to fully participate in the planned activities for Jas’s birthday nuptials.  In a rare display of sensibleness, Jas has decided to sleep in, and when she still inevitably wakes up before the rest of us, Tom has promised he will take her on a romantic morning stroll to distract her. 

As her faithful companions, romantic strolls are the sorts of activities that we should be supervising (ie, spying on), but we were all so tired that Rosie simply gave Tom a stern warning and then collapsed on top of the (my) sleeping bag.

He doesn’t look particularly concerned, but it is very hard to be scared of someone still slightly smeared with bits of mud and sheep poo when their fake beard is falling off.

 

**2cm into sunrise**

Ellen is standing around looking white-faced and a little like she may face plant from exhaustion into the camp stove, but happily, she is too tired even to dither. 

Dave gave me a quick kiss that may or may not have exchanged some shared mud as well as saliva, before quite literally dropping his filthy pants in front of his tent and just letting himself pitch forward into whatever black hole of horrors awaits him in a tent owned by Sven.

I was too stunned to make any kind of coquettish gesture, we all just stood there staring at where Dave’s boxer-clad backside had just been, before Jools went “Oo-er!”

At then we all promptly turned around and shuffled like overtired moles into our own tents, ditching dirty clothes as we went. 

So now I am lying in Rosie’s sleeping bag, unable to sleep, while visions of Dave’s bum in black satin-y boxer material dances in front of my eyes.

I will never be able to sleep, all I can think about are those boxers and Dave with his two perfect-…

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

 

**Sometime later in the morning**

Sun is too bright.

Birds are too cheerful.

Eurgh.

 

**11:02am**

Shot out of my sleeping bag with a bang and collided with Rosie doing the same thing at the sound of a much, much louder bang.  Unsurprisingly, from Sven’s tent.

 

I’m a bit scared to know.

 

**11:03am**

Well according to Rosie, Sven was doing a test-run of tonight’s custom flares.  She’s not entirely sure why the matches were needed for this dress rehearsal, nor the hairspray, but you can’t have everything, the tent’s intact.

Dave’s eyebrows are not.

Fortunately, although he now looks a bit on the startled hamster side, I still luuurve him a lot.

This may have something to do with the fact that his nip libbling techniques have only improved from his small brush with death, which gives new meaning to that saying, ‘the snog of life’.

He may not be the Sex God, loving patron of marsupials but he is still v, v, attractive, I am being positively manhandled into a tree.

Man handled.  Hahaha Dave is handling me and he is a man… and being a man he has a ‘handle’, as mutti’s crap mates would say, Hahaha! Nicey nice, yesss, back to ear snogging!!

Oh god.  Brain has officially left.

Mmmmmmm… Hands everywhere.  His.  Mine.  Oh god he’s grown another hand, how did that one sneak under the hem of my shirt?  Ooooo…

Oh shit.

 

**Later**

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

Okay.  Note to self, do not run hands over boyfriend’s eyebrow-less face while in the midst of a tres bien snogging session.

Not when it leads to endless attacks of the laughs which cause the boyfriend to get in his huffmobile and sulk.

It seems that even Dave the Laugh is unable to have a laugh about his own lack of facial hair.  I will, however, forgive him for this, because if Sven had burned my eyebrows off with matches and anti-frizz hair spray I would have been forced to start world war three with Viking-land.  Thank goodness he has never been so careless around Rosie, or we would be experiencing the apocalypse. 

Dave was quickly enticed out of his huffmobile with more excellent snogging and handsing, much like Angus and Gordy are manipulated out from Next-Door’s kennel with ham bones. 

Eurgh.  There is a comparison that did not need to be made.

Also, Declan has just appeared panting like a loon to say that Jas n’ Tom have been spotted so we should come back immediately if she is not to sense anything is amiss.

For goodness sake if I wanted to reassure the insane that all was well when it actually wasn’t I could have just as easily gone to visit Grandad. 

But out campsite has food.  This vaguely wet and uncomfortable tree does not, though it does have a snogging Dave. 

Sod it.  Food wins.

 

**11:14**

We all stink.

It is a sad, but unfortunately true fact.  Happily though, it does not seem to have put Dave off, though I am now wondering whether his nose contains everything it should.  Perhaps all his inner nose was singed away along with his eyebrows?

Since it is slightly warmer than frigid, Mabs actually made the incredibly wise suggestion that we go and have a swim to wash the god-knows-what off of us, and it is a mark of how desperate we were to be de-pooed that we unanimously agreed. 

I think we gave the woodland animals quite the performance, on our way to the river.  Rosie led us all in a rousing yet inspiring series of songs to march along to, so we stomped through the haunted woodland pretending we were the soldiers of the Queen, sans the naff hats.  I choose to think the birds hurling themselves out of the trees were nature’s way of giving us a standing ovation.  So after we had frightened away everything within a five kilometre radius, Sven started to yodel.  My hatred for Heidi has been renewed.  I vair, vair politely suggested to him that he would sound even better with several socks in my mouth.  You would think Rosie was capable of taking it as the light hearted suggestion it was, but she pinched me!

I may have to give her a small duffing up in the near future.  Perhaps after Jazzy’s vast and various birthday celebrations.

 

**11:23**

Any remaining woodland animals hoping to live out the rest of their innocent, furry little lives have just had a rude shock.

Sven whipped his togs off, hurled them over the tree branch and skipped into the water with the blissful grace of someone entirely exposed, with all of his bits and pieces free to sway in the wind as they pleased.

Even Tom was considerably alarmed by this.  It is very alarming to come across a six foot Viking in the rudey-nudeys.

I must make sure to stay well away from him when I inevitably get pushed in the water by Dave.

 

**11:25**

I got pushed in the water by Dave.

 

**Later**

ALL OF MY KNICKERS ARE WET.

 

**12:43**

There is clearly only one solution here.  I’m going to have to go without.

 

**12:46**

Rosie is quite clearly insane.  The Ace Gang has long suspected this, with several theories around Sven’s toxic chemical-releasing hair products being thought the cause, but now there is proof.

The whole camp, now happily knows I am not wearing any knickers, and while Ellen looked vaguely scandalised, Dave’s head snapped around so fast I expected it to break off his shoulders and fall on the ground.  Probably to end up being used as a soccer ball. 

Not a chance, Dave.  I will not be enticed to engage in number 9 on the snogging scale in a freezing paddock surrounded by voyeuristic sheep and lads. 

Just had the very strange thought of pretending to be Lady Godiva on a sheep.

I think I need to lie down.

 

**In my tent with a bra over my eyes, in lieu of cold cloths**

Jazzy Spazzy, in a show of truly fantastic great mateship, has appeared to lend me a pair of her knickers while mine dry. 

This would usually be a golden opportunity for a comment that if I had wanted to use a pair of grandma’s elephantine knickers, I would have asked Slim (eurgh), but the times are truly desperate.  I cannot wear pants sans knickers, and my bottom is well and truly freezing in this skirt, so I put aside my long held differences, and gracefully accepted the proffered sword.

Or knickers.  Who cares what they’re called really, as long as no fool starts using the word panties, because then there will be a violent assault where we all duff the fool up as a group attack. 

“Jaz, I swear on our Lord Sandra’s life that I will never say anything rude about your enormous undercrackers ever again.”

I may have said a few too many rude things about Jaz’s knickers in the past.  She let out such a huff of complete huffiness that it ruffled her fringe, and then flicked the knickers in my face before doing the awkward backwards shuffle of a marsupial zombie wombat out of the tent.

 

**2 mins later**

Spent a frantic moment scrubbing my face from where the knickers had touched me.  Then realised I was smudging my makeup. 

Changing out of my skirt to put knickers on, in order to puts pants on was nearly as difficult as putting the skirt on had been in the first place. 

It wouldn’t have looked out of place on those crap children’s shows Libby watches on the TV, where the actors do ditzy movements and stare at the camera with goldfish eyes.  It is insane, so Libby does of course love it.  The last time I walked through the living room, hoping to watch a few minutes of a program on the TV that is also partially mine, being in my house she was trying to stand on her head, mooing like a cow. 

Up to my ears in farmland animals however, the ordeal of changing bottoms while lying down in a tent was quite different.

I think I will call it, ‘The Dance of a Wombling Whale’.

It goes something like: - wiggle wiggle from side to side, wrenching skirt down legs with torso remaining on the floor.  Hump, hump, hump (mind out of the gutter!) to try and shake remaining clingy fabric off lower legs, before temporarily splitting tail in two to shake foot, hurling skirt into wall of the tent.  Lay down and pant for a moment.  Perform series of ab crunches to hook knickers holes onto both feet, before tucking feet backwards under bum and doing the reverse jiggle to get them up and over your thighs.  Squeal a little as you lost balance on roll to one side, squashing your nose against a stiletto heel.  Now rise into full-on sit up, clasp legs together back into tail, and shimmy the pants as far up your legs as possible.  Lie back down, lift hips off the ground and finish the wiggle-hump movements until pants are completely on.  Collapse to the ground and pant in exhaustion, before eventually reaching down to button and zip*.

*Do not forget this step, has far reaching consequences.

After I had finally finished the Wombling Dance of the Pants, I may as well have just completed a full PE workout.  Perhaps I shall mention to Miss Stamp that it is incorporated into our education, rather than useless things like running, or badminton.

 

**1 minute later**

Eurgh.  Forgot Miss Stamp was a perverted lesbian for a moment. 

Perhaps not.

 

**1 min later**

I will never ever be mentioning this to Jazzy Spazzy as long as I may live, but these knickers are actually very comfortable, and my bottom is now warm once more. 

 

**1 min later again**

Very warm, actually.  Why is my bottom this warm.  Surely the point of Jas’s enormous knickers is not to hide a small space heater?

 

**1 min later, bottom now cooling off again**

Discovered I have been sitting on top of a (mercifully closed) hot water bottle. 

My thoughts first went to Dave, before realising that Dave would not have brought something so ludicrously practical. 

Mystery cleared up. 

Tom is a saint, for all that he is a slightly clumsy wildlife rambler. 

I shall definitely make him a little commemorative plaque when we get home, as a thank you for keeping us all alive for a few days in the wilds of rural England. 

However, there will be a reference to the badger incident.  That goes without saying. 

 

**Lunch.  Or is this breakfast?**

Mmmmmmmm, pancakes, yum yum. 

**Back on my authentic log furniture**

The plaque should also give a brief mention to Tom’s cooking skills.

I would almost be tempted to start dating the brother of the man who left me for an actual wombat, but then I remembered that Tom wakes up early to go bird watching and sell organic fruit. 

Also, Jas still calls him Hunky!!!

No.  Never.  Won’t be able to look at him for remembering (Hunky!!) falling in a bog looking for badgers. 

Also, Dave and I snuck off for another snogging session while Ellen and Declan were sent to clean the dishes, completely oblivious half a dozen matchmakers were at work.

 

**Wiping my own lipstick off my neck**

Oh yes.  Definitely Dave.

 

**6pm**

It is nearly time for the fireworks!!!  

I could not, quite frankly be arsed to put on a repeat performance of the dance of the Wombling Whale, so I have merely put my fireproof dress on over the top of my clothes, and put my faith in Lord Sandra to protect me.  It does, if I say so myself, look quite spectacular.

The lads are all leaping around in their excitement, doing that weird thing where they all start shoving each other into trees and slapping one another. 

I turned to Mabs and said, very wisely, “Boys are mad.”

She nodded equally wisely, twisting her eyebrows up and affected a Chinese accent to reply “Indeed they are, my young student.”  Except then Jules pointed out that twisting her face like that would bring on early wrinkles, so she madly untwisted her face and started stroking her skin (oo-er!) in alarm. 

According to Rosie, Sven has some type of moisturiser that one of his relatives sent him for his birthday, perhaps not realising that Vikings-in-training rarely have need of it.  So, of course, she nicked it, and through a dodgy internet translation service, worked out the cream was anti-aging, for prevention of wrinkles moisturiser. 

So this explains Rosie’s excellent skin for the past few months, despite the acrylic fake beard, but does not explain this –

Why did Sven’s Grandma decide that more than anything else, he needed anti aging moisturiser for his birthday?

 

**Several minutes later**

Oh, who cares.  Perhaps it is to supplement his diet now that he can’t drink mead and eat salted fish every day. 

Declan took a break from the manly slapping-each-others-legs to come ask Ellen if she’d watch the fireworks with him (he seems to have forgotten you could more or less count the members of this party on both hands) and she blushed so hard it now appears we have lost Ellen and adopted a walking tomato. 

Happily, there is no difference between our departed friend and the sparkling, stuttering tomato that has replaced her, they both take several minutes to stammer out what essentially means ‘yes’. 

Jas and I clasped hands and beamed as we pretended to be the proud parents, and Rosie pulled out the camera and took a photo.  Mabs kindly provided the mandatory duffing. 

How far we of The Snogging Scale have come, since its creation.  I actually feel quite fond at the moment.

 

**1 minute later**

The moment has ended. 

Rollo shoved Declan into a ditch, and now he is sneezing out the moss up his nose.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

 

**Dusk – the dark kind, good for watching fireworks without tripping over your heels**

The sheep seem to have gathered around to watch us suspiciously from what they think is a safe distance from the giraffe that is Sven.  They are wrong, but they’ll have to learn one way or the other.  I notice there are no lambs on the frontline. 

They are capable of learning after all.

For safety reasons, Tom was in charge of setting the firework display up, and Sven is in charge of lighting it.  This is because, as Tom put it, ‘A small missile could hurl Sven off his feet and into a tree and he’d still get up and dance a jig in leather flares’.

He’s not wrong. 

Gave Jas a little hug of excitement before she started shoving me off of her.  Then she remembered the temperature rivalled Antarctica, and immediately huddled back against me.  So now we are doing the penguin huddle, while several feet away, Sven has been given a cigarette lighter. 

Dave appeared from larking around with his mates to give me a quick snog on the cheek and pressed in against my side to join the huddle, while Tom (the patron saint of badgers and stray campers) very kindly stood behind us and threw both arms over our shoulders.

Niiiiiiiiiiice and warmy. 

And on Dave’s side, handsy.

 

**1 min later**

Ooooooh, Sven is lighting the first of them now!

 

**1 min later, dancing around a field having broken free from the penguin huddle**

THE FIREWORKS ARE GLORIOUS!!!

We are all dancing around the paddock, even the lads, all singing and screaming and mad dancing while Sven just keeps lighting more of the rockets on fire!!

Yyyyyyyyeeeeeeeeesssssssss!!!!!!

THERE IS PRETTY COLOURS AND SPARKLES AND FIRE SPARKLES AND LOUD BOOMING NOISES AND IT IS  _ MUCHOS EXCELLENTE _ !

 

…

 

The sheep appear to be getting excited, they are stamping their feet and tossing their heads to participate in our celebration!

Now this is what I call a quiet, intimate birthday party.  A dozen or so friends and a couple of hundred sheep, celebrating a exploding firework display in a boggy paddock.

Vive la Jazzy!

 

**Later**

Oh sodding hell.

It appears that sheep are not capable of appreciating the British cultural phenomenon that is amateur firework displays. 

Not if the way they have formed a mob, reached top speed quicker than a Maserati, and then hurled themselves straight through that fence is any indication.

_ Sacre Bleu _ , Baby Jesus.  

 

**8:23pm**

No one is quite sure what to do.  We are simple folk, none of us has ever seen a sheep stampede before. Even Sven looks a bit stunned.

Do we just go back to the campsite?

Surely we do not have to chase after the sheep.

I refuse to chase after the sheep.

 

**2 mins later**

I hate chasing after sheep. 

These heels were not designed to herd clouds on four legs through boggy paddocks. 

 

**1 min later**

Eurgh, my face must look so red by now. 

And there is mud all over the bottom of my pants, though at least they are leather, and therefore should come clean. 

The sheep refuse to go in the right direction.  Rosie even tried hurling her shoe at one, except it turned around and then rammed straight into it’s mate, trying to get away. 

Rude.  That is not how you treat friends.  That is how you treat the Wet Lindsey’s of the world.

 

**7 mins later**

Jas says she can hear an engine.  I politely suggested (through pants) that the fireworks had caused her temporary hearing loss, but she is still insisting she can hear something.

 

**Hobbling around a bog in heels**

A farmer has just appeared on the horizon on motorbike, and the only reason I know this is because he is shining a spotlight very, very brightly at us.  I staggered straight into Dave and nearly fell over, trying to rub the spots out of my eyes. 

Also, I can now hear him yelling from here, over the engine, the lads, and the bleating of all these bloody sheep. 

Held an extraordinarily quick conference with the ace gang, unanimous conclusion was reached. 

Going to make a run for it.

 

**Several centuries later, having failed to make a run for it**

What exactly are farmers doing, roaming around their paddocks at night on a quad bike?  Surely not that many people come to celebrate birthdays in the middle of nowhere that farmers regularly patrol the land with reels of fencing wire, like red-faced Elvis in overalls to come destroy the fun of people who are only trying to celebrate the life of a friend?

Surely this is not a thing?

It was quite scary, actually.  We girls hid behind Sven, who had been banned from speaking, while Tom and Dave tried to calm the lunatic in overalls before us, who was minutes away from imploding. 

I did attempt to help, by proclaiming our innocent intentions of playful celebrations, but Tom stretched out a hand without even looking backwards and shoved me back at Sven, who cheerfully patted me on the head and handed me the lighter.

The red-faced loon was fairly trembling in his overalls, and was throwing nasty words around at the absolute top of his voice; like ‘police’, ‘private property’ and ‘look what you young vandals have done to my bloody fence!’

Dave helpfully pointed out that the sheep had broken down the fence, not us, and after delivering a blasting of foul language with a generous serving of spit, the loon turned back to Tom and resumed yelling at him, since he was the only one who was stepping forward. 

After several more years of yelling and insults and enough spit to fill several dentists offices, we were finally free from the jiggling walrus on his motorbike, after helping him make a patch in the fence so the sheep would stay in the other paddock.  He apparently owns both paddocks, which doesn’t explain why he got so upset about the little hole in the first place, but as I have said many times, you just cannot reason with the elderly.  He ought to be in a home with Grandad.

So while the lads were helping hold wire and fence posts and being more useless fence-menders than Nauseating P. Green, we saw the chance, took the chance, and ran away. 

Currently sitting around the fireplace, helping each other scrape mud out of high heels.

Teamwork at its finest.

 

**Back to being muddy, though now at least warm and muddy, rather than wet and muddy.**

Jas’s spirits seemed slightly dampened, after the run-in with the homicidal farmer, but she now seems to find the whole incident quite funny, which, good for her.  They say spontaneity is the soul of celebration, and this was nothing but.

So oh well, ho-hum.

There is still the lamb to come, although she doesn’t know about that bit yet. 

Neither does the farmer. 

 

Oops.

 

**Later**

The lads have returned, and for the second time today, we have all been forced to scrape ourselves of mud and grime, though Tom was now bright enough to remember he had a packet of baby wipes in the car. 

Ellen and I were so grateful that I grabbed hold of his head to so we could each give him a kiss on the cheek, before making off with the baby wipes, and he looked a little stunned. 

Surely that cannot be the weirdest thing he has experienced tonight. 

But, free of the dreaded mud once more, our high spirits have returned, Rollo has put some music on, and Rosie gave the battle cry on her horn to party onwards. 

Oley!

 

**10:44, sheep baaing miserably from afar.**

Time to sing Jazzy Happy Birthday!!!!

Sven has gone to change into his ‘special birthday surprise’ flares.  Rosie licked her lips and went to help, Jaz checked the fire extinguisher was still in the back of Tom’s car, Ellen let out a bit of a whimper, and Jools is currently looking to the heavens and offering prayers to baby Jesus. 

I would laugh in their face at their trivial and pathetic fears, having come so close to being eviscerated with a piece of fencing wire by a balding, red-faced loon in overalls.  But I feel the need to dig my ye olde fireproof headdress out of my suitcase.

 

**10:54**

Hahaha, Sven has outdone himself to single-handedly – double handedly? (oo-er!) outdo the lights and musical entertainment potion of today!

Declan let out a little badger shriek of fright when our wild Viking ripped open the side of his tent with a hunting knife and leapt out like a giraffe on steroids, and fell off the back of his uncomfortably knobbly log. 

In all due fairness, Tom jumped so high he actually managed to do a little pivot mid-air and ended up crouched on the roof of his car, Ellen fell sideways into the fire pit (again) and is currently rubbing her undoubtedly sore and ashy bottom, Dave and I let out similar squeals of unrestrained delight that to the untrained ear could be mistaken for childish fear, and the rest of the gang dove either sideways or backwards making a sound similar to mice.

His crotch is the most brightly illuminated part of his entire body.  It is quite disturbingly mesmerising.  There are these little blinking lights all the way up the seams of his pants (inner and outer), and when he pressed a little button on his belt, the happy birthday song started to play, emerging from the small speaker positioned directly over his trouser snake.  There were these weird grey bits crisscrossed all over the fabric itself, and we couldn’t work out what they were for until Rosie, who had at some point changed into a swooshy grass skirt and a lei, carefully hoisted the skirt well away from him to lean down to his ankles and hold the lighter just out from the end of one of the grey sticks. 

It lit on fire with a little whoosh, and that is when we figured out he had dozens of sparklers sewn into his pants!!!

They were all lighting one after another, as soon as the sparkles were high enough while Sven spun around in circles, singing at the top of his lungs.  He did all these amazing flippy-flippy jabby-jabby motions with his legs that actually spun the sparkles into really cool patterns, like you would do when you use them to spell out rude words, except Sven was now spinning in circles around the bonfire and the happy birthday song was still playing from over his crotch!

Oh, how we laughed.  And then, when he finally finished by picking Jas up and spinning her around in the air as she shrieked, demanded he teach us the sparkler dance.  Except Rosie said they have now run out of sparklers and flame retardant fabric, so it will have to wait until we go home. 

“Safety requirements forbid it, since Gee was the only one of you duffs who was clever enough to bring fireproof clothing, even if she does look like a prostitute from the Middle Ages who’s also wearing a wimple.”  This slander against me required several hard pinches, and much batting of hands, to the jeering of the lads, while Mabs pointed out that Roro herself was wearing a Hawaiian grass skirt and a coconut bikini over polar fleece, and therefore didn’t have the right to comment on other people’s clothing today.

Well said.

And then we all turned to the lads and demanded to know where their fancy dress was, and they all shuffled their feet and blinked and slid around, looking a bit like goldfish. 

Our malarkey was interrupted by Tom, who was coming carefully out of his tent.  It turns out that Jas even has a birthday cake, which Tom’s mum made and which has been carefully hidden in Tom’s tent over the last few days, so it would survive until now.  It had candles and icing flowers and everything, and we all ooh-ed over it for several minutes until Tom put it gently down on the table so we could sing Jas happy birthday.

We all held hands as we sang, skipping around the fire until we got to the end of the birthday song, and Sven broke off to finish the little dance on his own, ending in a dramatically rendered splits.  The last time I tried that, I ripped the crotch of my tights.  Rosie howled with laughter, while Jas clapped her hands and laughed so hard that tears were nearly squeezing out her eyes as she lent forward to blow out the candles and make a wish.

Straight after that, Sven hurled a bowl of macaroni and cheese directly into the heart of the fire.

What the hell??

Does he think we have been trying to summon Satan or something?

Yes it appears he does, if the reverent bowing to the fire is any indication.

 

Who cares.  Time for presents!

 

**Back on the knobbly log of bruised bottoms**

Ellen and Mabs gave Jas her present first, while the lads ran off the lamb’s hiding place to bring it back.  And they actually had a super-dooper awesome idea!!

They have given Jazzy this mermaid tail, which you slip on over your legs, so when you are splashing around in a pool with your mates you can put the tail on and pretend to be a mermaid. 

Perhaps I should teach her the Wombling Whale Dance, to help her put it on?

We got it out of the box so Jas could try it on, and Rosie snapped a couple of photos of her laughing and twisting on the log wearing the tail, which was a really awesome greeny-goldy colour. 

She was even so generous that she let the rest of us try it on, so for a few minutes we all took turns pretending to be mermaids, until the lads got back and we stuffed it back in its box in a hurry, lest they think it was naff.  Or ask to try it on themselves. 

There wasn’t really a way to wrap the lamb up, or even try and make it a surprise, since it was bleating at the top of it’s lungs, and Jas loved it anyway.  Someone had gone over it too with the baby wipes, so it was in fact completely mud free when she ran squealing to hold it.  Sven went a fetched the baby bottle again, so Jas held the lamb while I scritched it’s ears, and Tom fed it another bottle that Sven had produced.  It was actually quite a cute little thing, though it’s wool was oddly waxy. 

The poor lamb actually fell asleep while still drinking it’s bottle, which wasn’t altogether unsurprising, given the stressful day it had haven.  We all cooed a bit more and took turns patting it and stroking the wool, before Jas promised she would put it back in the paddock with the other sheeps tomorrow, though she sounded a little sad at having to give it up. 

Rosie and I took this as our cue to go get our present for Jas.  Finally, finally getting to drag the Christmas body bag out of our tent was a great feeling, and the look on Jas’s face was hilarious when she saw how big it was.

Her face when she had finally torn all the wrapping paper off was even better. 

Rosie and I had carefully spent hours and hours making a life sized paper machè owl costume, large enough for Jas to wear.  With several pounds of craft supplies and some dubious help from Angus and Gordy’s victims, we’d managed to cover the entire thing, except for the eyes, with feathers.

It was clearly the best present ever made, and Jas loved it.  After she’d gotten of the ground, having finished wheezing from laughter, she stood up and we helped lift it onto her, manoeuvring her arms through the cut out holes in the side.

In her birthday glee, she even did a little dance for the video camera, hopping around and pretending to be an enormous owl while the rest of us fell about in a glorious uproar.  She only stopped dancing around and made us help take it off after she tripped over the kettle and face planted into Declan’s arms, emerging with messy hair and a flushed face. 

The rest of the gifts seemed rather on the common side after that, but they were still actually all great.  Jools gave a handbag that Jas has been side-eyeing in Boots for the last 6 months, and Tom gave her a ring!!!!!!!!!!!! that she has not stopped glancing at since it slid on her finger.  It is not, he promises, an engagement ring, merely a pretty piece of jewellery with a green moonstone in a silver setting, the proceeds of which were donated to the wildlife and animals in gem-mining countries. 

Sven got down on one knee in front of Jas, and kissed her ring before beamingly offering up a beautifully wrapped pair of snow skis.  She did not even bother to ask, just gave him a huge hug, before hugging the skis to mime how much she liked them.

 

**Real owls hooting in the distance**

The revelries went on until past midnight, a blur of dancing and snogging and cake eating.  When the cake was gone we switched to chocolate, and when we finally couldn’t dance any more we collapsed in front of the fire and lazily toasted marshmallows to throw at each other.

It was surprisingly warm and comfortable, to lie there in the dark nattering on about nothing in particular, stuffed to the gills with yummy food. 

We only eventually went to bed when, in classic English tradition, the clock struck midnight and the heavens opened to let the rain pour.

Actually, it was past midnight, and not so much pouring rain as it was sleet, but you get the gist.  With Sven’s tent wrecked from his earlier shenanigans with a hunting knife (that Tom has since confiscated) he cheerfully yodelled us goodnight from Tom’s tent.

Lucky Tom.

Dave came to crawl in with Jas and I, since Jas had crawled in with me after Rosie had fallen asleep in a pile of dry grass/straw from her skirt on top of Jas’s sleeping bag.  We were going to quick him out, since it is after all Jas’s birthday, but then he offered to brush our hair, thrusting a hairbrush in each hand in our direction and cheekily smiling like he was pretending to be Sweeney Todd.

On one hand, uninterrupted girl chat, without the possibility of farts and/or spontaneous walrus noises.

On the other hand, Dave the Laugh brushing our hair.

Goddammit, who taught him our weaknesses?

 

**Some point after midnight**

Eventually kicked Dave out after he fell asleep while trying to work out how to braid Jas’s ponytail. 

He tromped blearily off like the good sport he is, though not before sticking both hairbrush handles in his mouth and letting them hang like walrus tusks, and honking goodnight at us. 

And like good walrus mates, we honked him goodbye.

 

**Still in my tent, vaguely wishing Jas would shut up**

Jazzy Spazzy may be delirious with tiredness and leftover birthday joy, she is being quite sentimental while making absolutely no sense. 

Eventually however, she shuffled over, momentarily caught on Rosie’s spiked stiletto and gave me a little hug.  “Thank you Gee.  I really did have the best birthday trip ever, you were all amazing.”

Aww.  I feel quite fond.  I gave her a little hug back, but I am also so tired I may actually weep a little tear of fondness, except I don’t want to do that, so I biffed her affectionately on the shoulder using my head, pretending I was Angus.

She yelped.  How ungrateful.

It did, however make her shut up, and she fell asleep in about ten seconds, now she finally no longer talking. 

This has been a pretty good birthday trip, hasn’t it?  We certainly could have stood to lose some of the animals, but on the whole, for a group of people less suited to camping then the Royal Family, we have persevered, despite the indignities we have faced, such as mud, dishes, a public toilet and constantly smearing lipstick.  We are true survivors.

Perhaps we should go camping more often?

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

 

NO.

…

I am quite frankly so excited to return to civilisation and use nice clean toilets and have a warm shower that I almost think I will not be able to sleep.

Not the you could really call my house civilised, given that Angus and Gordy are the two most civilised beings in it, and they are proud Scottish wildcats, but I am quite looking forward to the stash of Jammy Dodgers that Mutti thinks she has cleverly hidden in the back of the cupboard, although she is, as usual, wrong.

Only several hours until morning, not that I will be getting up at the bird’s crack of dawn, perhaps I shall try to get some sleep after all.

 

**1 min later**

WHAT IS THAT NOISE?

 

**Another min later**

Oh never mind.  It’s Sven’s snores reverberating against the accordion in his tent.

 

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahaha, you see?! I did do it! Sure it took me nearly four years but I did it! Thanks to anyone that stuck around long enough to see this chapter, I rather think it's my favourite. As ever, I would LOVE to know what you thought of it.


	5. Chapter 5 - A vair, vair short epilogue, in which minimal shenanigans occur

**Chapter 5 - A vair, vair short epilogue, in which minimal shenanigans occur**

 

**10:02am, having woken up with a bang, a thud, and several choice swear words**

 

I have decided to return home pulling off the hungover model look.  I’m wearing my darkest skinny jeans, an old t-shirt, my hair’s out, dramatic makeup with dark red lipstick and I am wearing an enormous pair of wrap around sunnies that I accidently pilfered from one of Mutti’s mates when she forgot them at our tip of a house.

Jas, it seems, is intending to return home as a cross between sunshine barbie and Snow White.  She has already returned the lamb to the flock of sheep (I thought I had been dreaming that the lads were singing Mary Had A Little Lamb), and taken all of our rubbish to be recycled, while smiling beatifically, with her stupid blonde hair shining in the sun.

I on the other hand woke up when started dismantling the tent on top of me. 

Rude.

 

**Later**

The other’s parents have all come to pick them up, since short of tying Sven to the roof of Tom’s car to be a bike rack, there is no way we can all go home in one car. 

Dave and I ran off for a quick snog in the woods before Rollo’s parents got here, only stopping when Rosie scared the life out of us by swinging down from a tree branch to dangle in front of our faces.  Sven waved from the top of the tree where he was inspecting a birds nest, and we weakly waved back before walking unsteadily away, legs all jelly-like from the fright.  What the hell are they doing up there?  Is Sven changing careers from a Viking in training to Tarzan?

Dave eventually left, but not before sticking his head out the window of the car and bleating like a sheep at the rest of us, who of course banded together and baa-ed back, while the parents who were still there looked on in amazement.

Jas’s Mutti came to pick the two of us up, which is nice of her, though it was once more a life threatening ordeal to hoist the lovingly made owl paper machè carcass into the boot. 

It may have lost a few more feathers, but what Jas doesn’t know can’t hurt.

It seems to be a boy thing, that they can all live off one small backpack of clothing for several day.  It is  _ tres, tres  _ annoying, because once Tom had thrown his bag, tent, and camping equipment in his car (taking all of 10 minutes) he came to help us, and he seemed to find it rather funny.  Once we had eventually gotten all the makeup kits, presents, and various bags of clothing into Jas’s Mutti’s car, he gave her a kiss on the cheek and waved goodbye to her mum, before driving off at a thoroughly sensible speed while Sven hung out the back window and waved, until Tom hit a bump and Sven slipped off his perch and fell back inside the car with an audible crash. 

Jas’s mum asked several questions about the trip, and smiled over the ring a little before saying that Tom seemed like a very good sort of boyfriend and she was glad that Jas had him.  And then that was it!  No intrusive questions about what we did or what kind of trouble we caused, just got in the car and drove us home while we chatted, occasionally asking a question about interesting wildlife we might have seen or whether the birthday cake was nice. 

Quite, quite amazing.  Top mothering skills right there.

 

**Later**

Ah, bonjour, my little house with a well-working toilet, it is good to be back!!

They dropped me off at my house, and I gave Jazzy a friendly hug and duff to the head and a polite wave to J’s Mutti, before hauling all my stuff back out of the car, and into the garden, where no one came to help me. 

Typical.

So I threw open the door to make a dramatic entrance and yelled, “I’M BACK!”, while dropping my bags with a flourish, only to let out an almighty shriek as a large furry thing flew off the kitchen table with a single bound, and attached itself to my head.

After several minutes of frantic mad shaking I dropped to the floor and rolled, making Gordy detach himself and leap off with a squawk. 

“Stupid bloody bollocking lump of fur, I will have your tail for this, you wait and see you flea-bitten mongrel-!“  As I ranted on, Angus strolled in like a King overseeing his domain, biffed Gordy sharply on the neck with his paw, and then leapt up into my arms.

The force of suddenly holding a small lawnmower nearly knocked me back down, but awww.  At least someone in this house loves me. 

After a moment however he got tired, and jumped out of my arms, nearly landing on top of Gordy who had to do an emergency leap to get out of the way, before he was turned into a cat pancake by his dear old dad.  

I yelled a bit more, expecting Libby to come out and kick me in the ankle for bullying Gordy, or Mutti to appear and ask whether I was home because I’d set the countryside alight, but no one appeared. 

This is of course, because no one is home. 

Charming.

 

**Later**

After leaving the cat dish in the middle of the doorway for Vati to trip on when (or if) he eventually came back, I dug the Jammy Dodgers out of the cupboard, and went upstairs to have a bath.  Had to physically throw Gordy out of the bathroom, and since then he must have used his mad ninja cat skills to crawl across the roof and down the other side of the house, because he’s now sitting on the bathroom windowsill, staring at me. 

So long as he doesn’t hurl himself through the glass, I don’t care. 

I am eating Jammy Dodgers in an overflowing bubble bath and I am completely free of all mud, sheep poo, ash, baby milk, icing, and more mud for the first time in days, and I really could not care less that the puddle on the floor is beginning to seep out under the door. 

 

**2 mins later**

Cause a small tidal wave out of the bath in fright, when Angus took a trapeze leap from the tree branch to join Gordy on the windowsill.

I could quite possibly send them both to the circus, where they could be little trapeze cats performing daredevil stunts across pools of electrified water below.  Angus could make friends with the tiger and other big cats, and there would be all those stupid poodle-y things they could ride like little horsies, so they wouldn’t miss the Next Door’s too much, living away from home.  

I was mentally planning the little outfits I could make them to wear, that would look best under the spotlights, though the chances were high they would just eat them, when the front door opened, and Vati’s dulcet tones sounded from downstairs, along with the crash that accompanied him tripping over the cat bowl.

“WHAT IS ALL THIS BLOODY WATER DOING DRIPPING DOWN THE STAIRS!?  GEORGIA?  ARE YOU HOME?  GEORGIA!” 

Libby was thumping up the stairs making small splashing noises as Angus and Gordy mrrowled in laughter from the window ledge, Angus jumping back into the tree as Vati continued to swear and shout from downstairs. 

Libby ricocheted off the bathroom door, all while singing “Ginger… it’s me Ginger, open the door, naughty boy!”, still happily stomping around in the puddle on the floor outside. 

Mutti’s voice joined the banging and the clamour downstairs and I sunk a little lower in the bath, closing my eyes to relax and letting my ears drop underwater as Libby began to use her head as a battering ram and the bath water trembled. 

And then, with an ear-splitting crack, that had me spluttering and coughing up to the surface Angus hurled himself off the tree branch and straight through the bathroom window, which shattered into a bajillion pieces all over the floor, none of which worried Angus as he stalked across the floor, bunched his legs and jumped up to sit on the edge of the bath.

Mutti and Vati shrieked in tandem downstairs and both began running up the stairs, slipping a little in the water by the sounds of it as Libby’s battering ram intensified, while Gordy slipped inside the massive hole now in the window and tiptoed delicately across the sea of broken glass to butt his head against the door. 

Because of course.  What else did I expect?  A bird will fly in, in a moment. 

 

**10 seconds later**

A bird just flew in. 

That’s it, I’m getting out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand, it's finished!!!! I really am so very grateful to those of you who have made it this far, particularly those of you who were kind enough to tell me that you liked this story, which is really the only thing that inspired me to pick it back up and finish it off. I t wouldn't have happened without you. For those of you in this vair small fandom I challenge you - try your own hand at this, however terrible or great at writing you may be. I'm always around for a chat, or to bounce ideas off - though sadly I cannot make the time commitment to collaborate :( 
> 
> So once more, mon pally's - please leave me a comment to let me know what you thought, as is the way of the truly great, who shall be blessed with flawless eyebrows. Those who don't will be haunted by badgers and stroppy sheep. Xx's, SaintClaire


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